


Time and Youth

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [12]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preference is everything...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Youth

Perhaps it is to feel strike  
the silver fish of her nakedness  
with fins sharply pleasant,my

youth has travelled toward her these years

or to snare the timid like  
of her mind to my mind that i  
am come by little countries to the yes  
of her youth.

                       And if somebody hears  
what i say -- let him be pitiful:  
because i've travelled all alone  
through the forest of wonderful,  
and that my feet have sure known  
the furious ways and the peaceful,

and because she is beautiful

~~ e.e. cummings

~~~~~~~~

Sometimes, at night after the lights are out and we are at rest, we talk about nothing. She usually starts such conversations. I follow wherever she leads. It's interesting to me only in that it tells me something about her, about the wanderings of her thoughts.

But tonight I start the conversation. It's the end of another mission -- the Vrivians finally satisfied with the repairs to their satellite system and weather controls, we are able to depart, the good will between member world and Federation restored. And I can think now of the night she went to great lengths to please me, and I have questions.

She comes to bed in one of her own night shirts, pale green silk. She orders out the lights and arranges herself next to me, leaning to kiss my cheek, settling back on her pillow and arranging the covers over us. Her arm is lying with mine, her toes wiggling, her calf brushing mine as she moves.

I remember the candles, and her sensuality, and I want her again. She must sense it -- but she doesn't move. I'm hard thinking about her and all the ways she could find to please that carnal part of me she reawakened just a couple of months ago, but she remains still, sighing a little.

So I move. Shorts down, bunched around knees, and now the aching hardness brushes the sheets. I take it in my hand and glide my palm along it, my fingers around it. Soft, warm skin.

"Deanna," I murmur.

"Jean-Luc?"

Little miss innocence. She wants a game. "Tell me about sex."

A pause, while she tried to understand the request. In the meantime, my fingers tighten while I imagine they are not my fingers. Muscles tight against the urge to thrust, I stay still, like her. Still and patient and wishing it weren't the heel of my hand applying pressure and spreading the first bead of moisture slick against my palm.

"What do you want to know about sex?" she asks, and I know the game is afoot. Her voice becomes velvet.

"Describe for me the nature of sex."

"In many species, it's the favored method of procreation." She finds my hand, fingers pushing in between mine, and I can't move. "In some, the favored method of recreation. Normally it involves some form of penetration. The Bi'ka, for example, have two long hooks in addition to a penis, to keep them engaged while the female does its best to swim away from the male. The renKarii have penises that are three feet long and barely a quarter of an inch in thickness, even though they don't necessarily need so much length for penetration, because the females generally find the act repulsive and want no body contact with the male whatsoever. Andorians require a minimum of four in a reproductive unit -- the males couple with the females, who then couple with each other."

"What about humans?" I can't help tensing -- the sensation of thrusting into our hands whets my appetite. She pries my hand free, filling it with hers, palm to palm, as she moves over to lay on top of me. Now I'm too excited -- I can feel her through the silk, which caresses my abdomen and my penis, and it's too much, almost. I pull at the silk gown until I can feel skin and the coarse hairs through her panties, and she captures that hand as well. With both my hands pinned to the pillow over my head, she settles, her reply tickling my cheek.

"Humans are terribly fond of recreational sex, and personal preference is paramount. Some like to play bondage games. Some prefer same-sex intercourse, others enjoy threesomes, still others find various props of value. Some enjoy experimentation; some prefer more traditional methods. Did you know there are numerous papers written by non-humans about the variety and frequency of human sex? It's an interesting phenomenon to some species."

"I had no idea. Tell me more." She's wriggling her hips, slowly grinding into mine, pressing my hardness into her softness one excruciating millimeter at a time.

"One of my fellow exo-psychologists, Dr. Mailun, spent nearly a decade interviewing human Starfleet officers and wrote about the results. Humans, he says, are all at once the most flexible yet the most rigid in expression of their sexuality. Genetics dictates most aspects, yet the human mind can accommodate wide variances. Fetishes, for example -- certain humans find the sight of a bare foot stimulating. Others find wearing clothing traditionally worn by the opposite sex erotic. But very few individuals exhibit a broad spectrum of preferences -- "

A push, and I reach complete penetration, interrupting her monologue. She lifts herself just far enough to match her lips to mine. A teasing brush of tongue against tongue, and she continues, letting her words fall into my mouth.

"Most prefer a combination, of oral, and digital. . . ." Gripping her fingers, I push us over, careful not to land on her too heavily. She moves beneath me but only to get comfortable. ". . . and of course, penile penetration."

"So generalities are of little use. Such combinations and variants thereof must be determined by personal preference?"

"Ye-es," she gasps, one of her hands wrapping around the back of my head.

She isn't human, though she looks mostly so, and I find that internally, she becomes less so. There is a ring, muscles I'm guessing, halfway in. There is another just beyond it. The function of these muscular configurations remains unclear to me, something to do with childbirth, perhaps, but when she uses them on me it can drive me crazy. She grips me before I can withdraw, and unlike other times she refuses to ease up.

"You didn't use those before," I murmur, raising myself over her.

"In Betazoids, copulation can take hours." She pauses while I gather her breast in my mouth and pull at the nipple. "The male reaches the point of no return but relies on muscular contractions of the female for the release, which does not come unless she is satisfied."

"How?"

We are frozen there while she thinks. I'm held captive in tantalizing fashion, her breast in my hand, her hand on my neck playing with the ends of scant hair, one of her legs bent and hooking itself around the back of my calf.

"It felt good, what I did to you last time?"

The memory washes through me. I experience an involuntary spasm that pushes me in rather than pulling, as I had been. She reciprocates when I attempt to smother her with a kiss. Shivers tingle down the length of my spine. Still kissing her, I force my arms around her and push, push, until I feel a pop -- I've pushed past that second ring. Both her legs have wound themselves around my hips. I can feel her buttocks pressing my upper thighs, bumping my balls, and I can't do this any more.

She unwinds those constricting muscles as I pull free and tightens again with each thrust. I can't breathe while kissing and we end up panting together. The burning begins, the drive to immerse myself in her, and I know that unless I do something I won't be able to stop --

The burning. It's back. I pull free and sit up on my knees, her legs falling open, and the smell of her makes me twitch and itch for more. But the burning -- it's her, racing along beneath my skin, and I know that if I continue I'll lose my memory of what happens next.

But she won't. I have the memory of what she did the other night, which she must have done in such a way that entailed less enjoyment for her. It was too deliberate and too focused.

I kiss her thigh. It makes her gasp. Rather than continue in that vein, I plunge into her and grab a nipple in my teeth. She writhes, cries out aloud, and the desire burns along my skin, spreading up from my groin, down my back, racing to the tips of my fingers and forcing my muscles into spasm.

Afterward, collapsed in limp, sated bliss, I sprawl across her and try to slow my breathing. And yes, I have forgotten all but the burn itself. "Tell me about sex," I whisper in her ear through the tangle of her hair. "Tell me about your sex."

Her fingers flutter at the back of my neck. "I knew nothing about sex," she whispers. "And now I don't need to know anything else."

"Flattery. . . ."

"Preference. In sex, preference is everything."

I touch the controls beside the bed. We have destroyed order. The covers are twisted and dangle off the bed, she has stretched herself languorously along the diagonal, her head upon my pillow, and I am beside her, up on one elbow.

"Preference," I echo, surveying her body. She has the silk gown up around her chest, bunched under her arms. Her skin glistens but is drying rapidly. She arcs her back, breasts rising, and smiles -- I have pleased her.

"There are two kinds of sex. The fulfillment of animal desires, casual sex, for which most humans form relationships of a less permanent nature. Some seem to prefer a semblance of love, of commitment, while others claim to enjoy the physical act without such semblance." She stretches again and puts an arm around my waist, breasts against my chest. "They can pretend permanence to make the sex more satisfying."

"And the second kind?"

"Sex as an expression of love. The best kind. Are you thirsty?"

"Hm, yes. And we should probably shower."

We rise to move into the bathroom, but I linger to watch her and follow after. She shakes her head as she reaches into the shower.

"You don't want me to watch?"

It's a reminder of her former embarrassment. I'm not even sure what embarrassed her, if it was my willingness to participate in whatever exploration of sexuality she chose or if she merely felt shamed for being caught in her own discomfort. There must be things she finds uncomfortable, certainly. I hadn't expected it to be something like that, but as she's said, variances exist.

She stops, her hand upon the controls, and looks over her shoulder at me. And she steps back, then places her hand on my sagging, shrunken penis. "Watch what?"

A twist of my wrist. Her hair against my palm, my fingers find her clit, pass on either side of it, meet and slip easily inside, then out, then in. Then three fingers, the heel of my hand against that moist button that's responding so quickly to the stimulation. With my free arm I ease her into the shower and against the wall. The musky, potent fragrance of Deanna aroused fills the stall. She cries out again, moves her hips uselessly while my fingers find that first ring and the longest, my middle finger, traces the top edge repeatedly.

Her hands spread against my chest, her eyes closing, her head bumping the shower wall -- her skin flushes wonderfully. She swallows, I watch it run up and down her throat and kiss it while pushing the rest of the way in. And with my other hand, just with a single fingertip, I play with the clit, teasing it with touch.

She pushes against the wall, using my shoulders to brace herself, and I feel the muscles move around my fingers. A whisper of the burning skates down my back. She's enjoying this. I'm still flaccid, but it jerks once as if apologizing. I withdraw abruptly and grab her buttocks, picking her up, and her arms go around my neck.

I haven't done this before. She's played with me, teased me, but we've never done this in the bathroom. Until now. Backing out of the shower, I support her weight with one arm and grab at the towel rack. At the tiny counter next to the sink, I put her down on a towel, sweeping the clutter of toiletries into the basin out of our way. The second towel fell on the floor, which is just as well. To one knee, and plunging straight in with my tongue.

Fire kindles in my chest. She inches closer to the edge, opening herself for more and encouraging me. My lips close on her clit. My fingers plunge deep, seeking her pleasure, and my thumb anchors itself in the tight ring of her anus.

She shudders and blurts something in Betazoid. All at once her fingers dig into my shoulder, her heels hit the panels, her back arches, and the burning washes through me -- I suck and pull and grip her right thigh, holding fast until the spasms around my finger cease and the burning wanes. I rise and lean in, hands on her thighs, and she accepts a kiss eagerly.

"I'll have to suggest a shower more often," she murmurs.

"It was my suggestion." I love the feeling of her breasts brushing my chest hair as she moves to embrace me.

"I'll have to make you suggest a shower more often."

"I would like that."

"I also like this."

Over her shoulder, I see our reflection, the cloud of her hair beside my face, partially obscuring one eye. The straight line of indentations of her vertebrae down her pale, narrow back, and my arm, my fingers drawing runes of possession on her shoulder blade. The bunching of her shoulder muscles when she tightens her arms around me.

"I love this," I whisper, startling her rigid. "I love you."

She lets go slowly, then pushes close, her hands flat beneath my collar bones, her nose and mouth pressing my throat. Her head is turned; I can see now in the mirror just the leading edge of her profile, peering out from the mass of black curls -- her closed eye, her nose, her smile. Rapture.

The unease of the night of the candles would be forgotten. Whatever compelled her to strive so much for my pleasure was gone, I hope. Her attempts disturbed me deeply. Explanations of why it had been so dismaying still eluded me. Perhaps because of what it suggested about her, more than anything it said about me. Perhaps because it seemed to hint that she found me difficult to please, or that she suspected I might become so? But how could she be anything but a pleasure?

"Preferences," I murmur.

Her eye has opened, I realize. She watches us in the mirror, as I've been doing, and her rapture doesn't diminish. "I love you," she breathes. With her breath, a ghost of the burning tickles my chest.

"Tell me about sex." I back away from the counter, taking her with me, and she dances on her toes into the shower, never leaving my arms.

"In what context?" She plays with the controls. With lukewarm water falling around us, she reaches for soap and begins with my scalp, lathering with her palms.

"In our context." Rather than copy her, I reach around and begin in the small of her back, spreading soap downward.

"A song without words," she says, her hands drifting down to lie idle on my shoulders.

"A poem," I murmur, closing my eyes against the water and tasting her cheek. "A poem. . . ."

We stand in the water. Her jaw moves under my hand; I open my eyes and find her waiting there, drawing me into hers, into the night brilliantly lit with the stars. I move my thumb over the splay of lines at the corner of her right eye. Crow's feet, they call it. Without makeup to hide them I notice the telltale tracks of entropy.

"Time, be kind," I whisper. "Herself and I know that you must have your way. Have it gently with ma belle -- but for beauty, understand, life (and also you) would end -- time, she's very beautiful."

She kisses me, and I know she is crying. She trembles in my arms. We wash, and rinse, and step from the shower to dry. She kisses me again before we leave the bathroom, and again as we re-make the bed.

She settles in my arms, and we are at rest. "Time," she breathes as she drifts into slumber. Her ribs rise and fall, push and give, my own respirations in a similar rhythm but just a second late.

I think about my life and adventures and all that I've learned. All that I have left to learn. I think about friendship and loss. I think about my father, raging against a blight that took half the harvest one year. About things that I cannot change, about things that I must change. I feel the push of her rib cage against mine.

"Time, be kind," I plead, touching the curve of her waist beneath the covers, then closing my eyes in hopes of sleep.


End file.
